


Jeeves and the trip to the country or Biggles and the country menace

by id_ten_it



Series: A barful strife [2]
Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns, Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Crossover, Established Relationship, Food, Humor, Humour, M/M, aunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-12 15:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13550325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: Algy is sick and is sent off to the country, with Biggles to keep a close eye on him.Bertie is down visiting his favourite Aunt, with at least two young ladies keeping a close eye on him.Nothing could possibly go wrong, could it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone who asked for a continuation of 'What Ho Biggles', I hope that this was worth the wait for my muse to return.

It was a dull, grey, day as Biggles followed his cousin onto the train. A proper London smog in fact. The smoke from the locomotives at Kings Cross Station presumably curled upwards as usual but it was impossible to tell due to the general dirty atmosphere, the smog effectively shrouding the tendrils of smoke as they rose past the brickwork. Algy, usually the more robust of the two of them, had been coughing weakly for some time now and even the exorbitant Harley street physician he had seen could suggest nothing more helpful than a change of air away from the thick winter peasouper of London. So, suitably bundled up, they boarded their first class carriage bound for the country. Algy resettled his scarf lower down his neck, coughed into a handkerchief, and tried to ignore the searching blue-grey eyes of the man opposite him. “I’m sure all the fresh air will help” he protested weakly, reassurance somewhat marred by another cough as they came out of a tunnel. As the journey passed on with few stops, the steady movement of the train and the inanity of the newspapers Biggles had selected before leaving lulled them both into a pleasant state of somnolence.

“Are you awake old chap?” Biggles gently shook his companions shoulder, greeted with a sleepy smile in familiar brown eyes. “I’m awake. Are we there?”  
“Almost. There’s Brinkley Court so the station can’t be too much further. Nice that we don’t know anyone I must say, no chance of getting caught up in something here!” Which just goes to show how wrong even decorated fighter pilots can be sometimes.

***

Jeeves was following by train with the bags so I was singing lustily as I drove the two-seater towards Brinkley Court. The idea of Anatole’s ambrosia for several days, coupled with the protection of my worthy Aunt Dahlia from my Wagnerian Aunt Agatha had certainly helped the last remaining Wooster feel more like it was spring than winter. I was still singing as I turned into the driveway, but the song faded from my lips as I saw a bevy of beazles turn and regard me. Assuming a stiff upper lip I waved jauntily and alighted. “What ho, what ho, what ho!”

“What ho Bertie!” Honoria Glossop slapped me on the shoulder, driving me three inches into the driveway. “Good drive?”  
“Oh ahh, rather” I agreed, attempting to stand upright, “I say, lovely day what?” Honoria laughed, “You are funny Bertie! It’s terrible weather! Winter is always dreary. Come inside and have a drink. You remember Daphne?” I smiled weakly at Honoria’s friend. Whilst better than Honoria in that she didn’t have a personality that resembled charging cavalry, Daphne had perhaps reverted too much the other way, reminding me rather a lot of la Bassett, a girl who, regular readers may remember, was enamoured with the idea that stars were God’s daisy chain and kittens were born each time a baby laughed. All in all, I wasn’t exactly sang-whatsits about this trip all of a sudden. It had been but eight months or so since the last entanglement with Honoria Glossop and I wasn’t completely over the shock despite Jeeves’ attempts to distract the y. master from a close shave.

“You do look awfully serious Bertie” Daphne murmured in the shell-like, “Are you sure you’re alright?”  
“Oh, rather!” I rather-d, hitching up the old bottom lip and attempting a smile, “never better, what? Just enjoying a break from soupy old London.” It was rather difficult not to disengage the Wooster corpus from the limpet hand that attached itself to the lower arm but one simply couldn’t tear oneself away from the gentler s.. “Oh no you look so run down Bertie. I _don’t_ think you can look after yourself properly. Honoria has been telling me all about how sad you were when she left you. I really think you _should_ have tried to stay with her for longer. It was your man who really posed the problem wasn’t it?”

Thankfully I was spared an answer by Aunt Dahlia. My most noble of Aunts sailed into the room uttering yips of joy, swooping down upon me and then pulling back, frowning in concern. “But where is Jeeves, you young blighter?”  
“Jeeves? Oh he’s coming with the luggage on the train. He should be here soon. Aren’t you glad to see me?”  
She flicked her fingers in a care-free attitude, “of course young blot!” and if that didn’t sting a little!   
“You mean to tell me that you didn’t invite me down here on my own merits?”

“Bertie, you young pestilence, you do not have many merits. Of course I didn’t! I wanted to consult Jeeves. On your own merits! Ha! Ha!” and she oiled off again, laughing merrily. I also laughed, but it was a hollow sound. It isn’t pleasant to discover that one’s valet is more in demand than one’s self, and even less pleasant to discover it only to be let alone with two beazles, one of whom had previously had every intention of moulding the young Wooster like a blasted jelly. Well, I mean to say!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggles' domestic bliss is one of my guilty pleasures. This has been influenced by pretty much every other fanfic I've ever read, but especial thanks to wateroverstone for 'The Highland Fling'. If you haven't read it I strongly encourage you to scurry away and do so right now! This chapter can wait until you have enjoyed a most spiffing tale of Highland carryings-on.

Engaging a rather ancient looking taxi, Biggles and Algy made their way to the cottage that they had rented, at the other end of the village. The village was rather small, boasting all of the usual buildings of an old-world country village, including two public houses, a church, a police station, a post office, two general stores, a green grocers, and a butcher with a rather interesting display of steaks in his window; nevertheless the driver insisted them on taking them ‘on a tour’. As they drove slowly past the chemists, the driver pointed to a small stone building with a riot of roses on a variety of trellises and stakes. “That’s your cottage, sir. It’s a nice one it is. Mrs Axelby the cleaner done clean it all out yesterday and aired everything. She’s a rare one, is our Mrs Axelby.” He added ruminantly. Before Biggles could find out what, exactly, stood Mrs Axelby apart from all the other ladies in the village who ‘did’ for various locals and visitors, the car was whisking off towards the church and the two men settled in for a short treatise on the history of the parish.

“Well I feel like I’ve known this place all my life” Algy smiled, as he eased himself into one of two easy chairs by their snug fireplace, “and I don’t suppose it will be long before we meet the colourful individuals that our faithful Davis alluded to.” He added, watching Biggles struggle with the tea-making things in the small kitchen.  
“That’s the thing about villages” agreed Biggles, with the air of a man who knew much about them, “news travels so quickly and every new person is considered to be of the greatest interest simply because there’s only so long that a person can be interested in whether or not Mrs Blenkinsopp used Mrs Smith’s cake recipe at the village fete three years ago, thus stealing her thunder.” He was startled from the intricacies of making tea by a most awful wheezing noise and hurried into the sitting room, deeply concerned. “Algy?” He queried, rushing over.

Algy, hands flapping around his face and neck, was a particularly unattractive purple. He wheezed and rocked, one arm curling around his still-thin torso. “Algy!” snapped Biggles. Algy raised teary eyes to Biggles’, gasping for breath. Biggles started forward, uncertain and deathly pale. His pallor and nervousness seemed to have quite an effect on his fellow, who fell silent within moments. “Oh hell” Algy muttered, “you didn’t…I’m sorry old thing. That startled you didn’t it?” he raised a hand to Biggles’, gently capturing it and running his thumb over Biggles’ knuckles. “I am sorry. I was just enjoying that picture rather too much.” Biggles allowed himself to thaw, the warmth starting at his hand and slowly moving up his arm and into that momentarily frozen part of his chest. “You weren’t laughing” he exclaimed, with incredulity. At Algy’s sheepish grimace, Biggles sat with a thump, luckily catching himself on the arm rest of Algy’s chair, “for heaven’s sake, don’t do that to a fellow! I thought you were on your way out!” Algy, suitably chastened at the sight of his partner suffering from real fear, gently slid an arm around his slender waist, encouraging the smaller man to lean into him. “I’m not” he whispered, soothingly, “I promise. I’m sorry.” Biggles settled slowly, but eventually sat relaxed and trusting against Algy’s shoulder “I should hope you are” he muttered, failing to hit his usual acerbic tone, “and if you aren’t now you will be soon enough when I tell you that I dropped the tea caddy and spilt a good dose of it, and the kettle’s probably boiling dry!”

  
Algy chuckled weakly, careful to stop before his throat could play up, “that’s almost as amusing as picturing your Mrs Smith and Mrs Blenkinsopp. I know for a fact you’ve been spared all the goings on of a small village so don’t talk down on things you don’t understand, there’s a good fellow, and go and tidy up the kitchen. Bring us through some of that cake as well, and if you’re very good I’ll let you serve me dinner too.” He tilted his face up at Biggles, mouth firmly up at the corners, more than a little amused at the idea of Biggles playing kitchen maid. The man himself seemed to take heart at the gentle ribbing, easing himself upright in a much calmer frame of mind and obediently setting out to see what could be salvaged of the tea things.

“And don’t mutter so!” Algy called through the connecting door, “you sound like a Warrant Officer conducting a review and it’s making me nervous. It’s only tea and cake, and Mrs Symes made the cake!”

Biggles shot him a glare which suggested that Algy would do well to watch his words. Algy gave him a sunny smile, “I’m sure you make a delightful cake, Biggles old thing.” Hastily he grabbed up his book, hiding behind it with a grin. Next time he looked up Biggles was silently engaged in the difficult art of slicing a particularly plummy looking fruit cake.

***

“For a chap who had an Ayah and a batman and a bevy of servants in between times, you’re dashed handy with a toasting fork” Algy commended Biggles, sitting up and surveying the breakfast spread eagerly. “It’s all that fending for oneself when travelling” Biggles explained, wriggling back under the covers, placing his frozen feet complacently upon his companion’s own rather warm legs. Algy yelped. “Don’t!” he glowered, pausing in the act of knocking the top off a soft-boiled egg, “that’s how people end up missing, and you know Raymond would look askance at keeping me in the manner in which I have become accustomed, if I killed you off.” Despite his words he shifted his legs until Biggles’ toes were comfortably sandwiched between warm skin, returning to removing the egg with single-minded intensity.

Biggles chuckled, watching the weak sunlight play over Algy’s hair for a moment or two before claiming his own tray and pouring out the tea. “I don’t know how the newspaper situation works” he admitted with a slight grimace, “but there was no sign of one when I was downstairs. I rather suspect we’re supposed to get one ourselves from the village.”  
“Oh I should imagine so” Algy agreed indistinctly from around his egg, “unless there’s a post boy but I shouldn’t think he’d drop it off early enough for us sky larks to read over breakfast.” At Biggles’ snort he swallowed and defended himself, “not everyone like to have breakfast over and done with before Raymond might telephone. I remember growing up sometimes I wouldn’t have it till quite ten o’clock.” At Biggles incredulous look he had the decency to colour slightly, “well only if it had been rather a binge the night before. My point is, perhaps they don’t expect people to be scraping marmalade onto some rather unburnt toast before it’s quite got to eight o’clock.” Suiting words to action he was silent for a moment before casting Biggles rather a ribald look, “I’m sure it’s only a matter of days before we’re staying up rather late ourselves.”

Biggles flushed, eyes dropping to the coverlet, finding the floral pattern rather interesting. Algy chuckled, fondly amused at this continued shyness. “I hope you aren’t making promises you can’t keep” Biggles remarked after a short silence, grey eyes meeting Algy’s with a flash of something deep and unreadable in them. “I shouldn’t like to get all excited and have no place to go. Gives a chap a rather empty feeling.” He had the intense satisfaction of watching Algy struggle to swallow his toast rather than spit it out on a laugh. “I’m quite stiff with anticipation” he finished triumphantly, as Algy dissolved into helpless – though far less terrifying – laughter next to him.

It was a very pleasant morning, all in all, though for all their talk the only touching that occurred was of the sort one would be perfectly capable of undertaking in a public setting with one’s long-time friend. Biggles, for all his resting against Algy the night before, was really rather more comfortable going off on a ramble around the village, or sitting in his own chair, and Algy, though not at all adverse to having Biggles all to himself, wasn’t about to insist on anything with Mrs Axelby due in that morning to make sure they hadn’t burnt the cottage down or killed each other with their feeble attempts at cooking.

Biggles being out exploring around the place, Algy was alone when Mrs Axelby came in. He made the mistake of coughing once or twice early in their acquaintance and was then regaled with the stories of every person Mrs Axelby had known who had had pneumonia, or consumption. Mrs Axelby had buried a lot of people, but seemed to have enjoyed the process given how ghoulishly she dwelt on the detail. As she was working whilst talking, Algy was able to continue perusing his book, after she had set him up with a cup of tea. So the morning passed, Mrs Axelby cleaning and setting out such foodstuffs as she trusted two men to be able to consume without help from a female, Algy reading and sipping his tea; gingerly to start with, and then with rather more certainty once it didn’t start his cough off again.

***

Biggles and Algy were in the chemist that afternoon, inspecting the range of soothing cough syrups and lozenges. It was a typical country chemist and Algy had already perused the various ointments and powders promising him a relief of any woe or potential woe; the adverts for heroin and coca wool certainly reminded him of the apothecary his Nurse had taken him into now and then, growing up. “I thought we weren’t allowed to buy heroin any more” he whispered to Biggles, moving up to the counter now that it was free. “I don’t know” his friend re-joined, “I suppose the news hasn’t made its way through the minor villages just yet.” Algy rolled his eyes at his partner’s London airs, and placed his small purchase on the counter, entering into a detailed conversation with the chemist about what, exactly, he had been using and should be using for his throat. Biggles, having heard the symptoms before and now trusting that Algy would get better with time and a spot of treatment, had drifted off to examine the range of foot powders with a vague thought that they would come in handy next time they went somewhere hot.

Algy was just assuring the chemist that he would wait and carry his parcel home again when he heard the door open and a most remarkable lady come in, accompanied by two small boys. One of the boys stared at Biggles with wide eyes for a couple minutes before accosting him with the eagerness of youth. “Weren’t you in the RAF?”

Biggles, caught between the child, the female battleship, and Algy, nodded. “Yes. Why do you ask?” He shot Algy a glare, but his friend continued to snicker into the paper bag he was now in possession of, making absolutely no move to leave the premises. The lady, having sailed into the shop, now berthed up at the counter and proceeded to inform the chemist of all his failings, especially those relating to a particular concoction he had supplied for the relief of certain gastric symptoms.

“Coo! I thought Bertie was making it up” exclaimed the other boy, apparently much impressed with this show of verisimilitude. “My sister showed me this picture from the paper-“  
“She showed me too!” interrupted the other youth. Biggles blinked at this interjection.  
“Showed me this picture from the paper” continued the first with a filthy glance at the other, “of you and Bertie and him” he looked at Algy, who had by this stage emerged from his parcel and was next to Biggles, “and a couple other fellows. Something about spies and smuggling and things.”  
“It was about sabotage” said the other boy, treating the word with some reverence, “and Major Bigglesworth and Bertie had been really clever and caught the spy.” With some doubt he added, “I don’t expect Bertie really did anything really.” Algy hid a smile, remembering the events which had transpired quite vividly.

Biggles pulled out a fountain pen with studied indifference. “How about an autograph then off you go.” He suggested, not unkindly. Two autographs thus supplied, he half turned and collected Algy, the two of them walking back towards the street.

“Phew!” Biggles expostulated, “I’d rather hoped we’d put all of that behind us”  
“Especially since the silly fool is doing hard labour” agreed Algy, “that’ll make him thing twice about taking what isn’t his!” The two men drew up outside the tea rooms, regarding them thoughtfully. “I’d rather not go back right away” Algy admitted, “I spent all morning closeted away and I’ve earnt my right to sit out in public and take a cup of tea”  
“And a rock cake” Biggles suggested, watching a plate of cakes be carried to a table near them,  
“And a rock cake” Algy agreed, licking his lips with pleasure, “or two” he added, anxious to be truthful. They were just heading inside when a voice hailed them.

They turned as one, to be greeted by the same woman sailing towards them, the two boys chugging along next to her like accompanying tug boats. “You are Major Bigglesworth?” The lady inquired, regarding the man with some doubt. She was about twice the size of him, Algy reflected, rather amused at the thought. No wonder she was surprised. “That’s right ma’am” Biggles agreed politely, trying to frown repressively at Algy.  
“Then you must know my nephew” The lady continued forcefully. Biggles glanced at the two boys, neither of them looking at all familiar “I’m afraid-“  
“Not these two little squirts” the lady continued good humouredly, “Bertie. Bertie Wooster.”

Biggles blinked, glancing at Algy. Neither of them had wanted the story to be publicised, especially with their photographs, but there it was. “I know him” he admitted, trying to ignore a sinking sensation in his stomach. His _empty_ stomach, it reminded him.  
“Oh good! You must come for dinner. Tonight. Bertie’s staying with me at the moment and I know he’ll want to see you again.” As Biggles looked slightly less than thrilled she added firmly, “I’ll send the car at seven. You’re staying at the cottage at the end of Marigold Lane?” At Biggles helpless noise of consent, she nodded.  
“Excellent. Seven. No need for white tie, black is perfectly acceptable. It’s just the family. Toodle-o!” She moved off, sweeping the two boys up in her wake with a forceful “Oswald! Bonzo!”

Biggles turned in stunned silence to Algy. “That’s one for the books!” Algy grinned, “Come on, let’s go and find something to eat. Dashed lucky we brought along our number ones.” Unresisting, Biggles followed him into the tea rooms. “I don’t think they call them number ones” he muttered, sitting and letting Algy deal with the food and drink order.

***

“How you ever managed to pass basic training is a complete mystery” Biggles chided, watching Algy fumble his shirt studs and fail spectacularly in tying his bow tie. “I don’t recall ever having to get into this sort of suit at Sandhurst” Algy returned, giving up on the tie and running distracted fingers through his hair.  
“I’d have thought after a childhood of wearing those ridiculous clothes you’d be able to manage a bow tie” Biggles smiled, stepping closer and turning Algy, reaching up with some slight difficulty and tying his tie deftly before smiling at his reflection in the small mirror, “there. Now do shunt over, there’s a good chap.”

Shunting Algy off to one side to tame his hair as best as he could, Biggles deftly checked the break of his trousers and the overall effect of his new pocket square. All being immaculate he collected up their hats and gloves, slipping on his own and then buttoning his coat. “It’s perishingly cold” he grumbled, following Algy to their front door, “I hope these people have a good fire going.”  
“At least it isn’t raining” Algy grinned, hastily winding a scarf around his neck before doing up his own coat, and laughing at Biggles’ shudder, “you’re a cat!” He teased, “You’re only happy when curled up somewhere warm with plenty of staff to wait on you.” Dropping the key into his pocket he followed Biggles out to the car.  
“That’s not true!” Biggles argued, “I like having something to do!”  
“Only on your own terms. Like a cat” Algy slid into the car which was waiting for them, giving his cousin a sly smile as they were driven up towards their dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

“Aunt Dahlia get a hold of you, Jeeves?” I enquired, watching him through the open bathroom door as he fed the studs into my shirt.  
“Yes Sir.” There was a pause as the final stud was put firmly in the correct place. “Mrs Travers was desirous of receiving my assistance, Sir,” my prized stud-wrestler continued. I made an interested noise in the old throat and splashed around slightly. Encouraging, don’t you know. Desirous of information.

“Mrs Travers is convinced that her periodical – _Milady’s Boudoir_ – will finally begin to make money should Mr Travers be induced to part with the necessary enticement for what Mrs Travers calls ‘one fell swoop’, Sir. I gathered from her that she intends to arrange for the publication of several editions which carry the works of several noted novelists at once, including Daphne Delores Moorehead, and Lady Florence Craye Sir. For this she will require a significant amount of remuneration. Further, Mrs Travers intimated – ahem – excuse me Sir, that she wishes you to marry.” Jeeves shimmered into the room, bearing another cup of the needful and offering it to me with an elegant gesture.

“Jeeves!” I grasped the glass like a drowning man, gulping it down and regarding him like said drowning man might his only hope of salvation. “Jeeves. I will not have it!”  
Jeeves retrieved the glass, his fingers touching mine briefly, “I am pleased to hear it Sir.” There was a certain thingness in his voice, the thingness which always turned up when we talked about marriage. “Now listen here” I continued, “we have had this discussion before but it seems we must have it again.” I regarded him for a moment. Weighing my options, as it were. “Go and lock the door, Jeeves.” I suggested. That done, I enticed the man back and took his hand. “You seem soupy, my own.” I murmured. “Are you concerned that you are somehow stopping me from carrying out my familial duty?” At his nod I continued. “We’ve had this out before, Reg. I am not about to enter into an alliance simply so the Wooster name is continued by a small child raised by unhappy parents. You know neither of us are comfortable with the idea of carrying on with a wife in the picture. I’m not even sure I could provide the necessary for the offspring, come to that.” I reflected, going ever so slightly away from the topic at hand. He regarded me with that look in his eyes he gets when he wants to believe the words, but can’t quite bring himself to. “Think it over” I murmured, leaning over the edge of the bath and kissing him chastely. “And whilst you think, I had better get a wriggle on.”

Jeeves stood, looking distinctly less soupy around the edges, and helped me out of the bath. In short order I was bunged into the shirt and tie, and was holding my hands out for the jacket. “A quiet night in I think, Jeeves.” I practically promised him. I did hate to see him like this, and the idea of those two wives-in-waiting hanging around like a couple of tigers ready to sink their claws into the defenceless hide of this Wooster filled me with a nameless dread.

  
“I think not Sir.” Jeeves raised one eyebrow a bare millimetre. “Two of the airmen we met at the hospital following your unfortunate accident with an omnibus are invited for dinner.”  
I goggled. “Bertie Lissie and that lot?”  
“Precisely Sir.”  
“Well, that should be a spot of fun!” I chirruped, and I was speaking the truth. I had got on rather well with said Lissie. “Indeed Sir. Pardon me, Sir, but Lord Lissie is not in the area. His two friends – Major Bigglesworth and Mr Lacey – are the two gentlemen who have been invited. It appears they are here for a short break.”  
“That should still be a bit of fun” I grinned, slipping on the jacket “however it might be a late night, as you say.” I rested one hand on his shoulder, holding his gaze for a moment, “do try not to worry, Reg.” I murmured.  
“I shall try not to.” He returned, pressing his hand to mine and then moving away to open the door. “Dinner, Sir.”

***

“What ho what ho what ho!” I chirruped, upon stepping into the pre-dinner drinks. “Long time no see and all that, what?”  
“Hullo” the smaller one murmured, looking as though his own Aunt had shoved him out the door and told him to play nicely. I smiled sunnily and shook hands all round. “What ho” The other one chirruped, looking rather as though he was a chappy who had stepped onto a 'bus and had ended up nowhere near where he thought he would. “How are you, Bertie?”

Well we sat and chatted of this and that, Algy telling me all about some grand new scheme he had which seemed to involve an awful lot of charging around the place on a train and fetching up and some friend or others home just in time to kill a wild animal. In return, I proffered an amusing anecdote or two about my own life in the metrop., dwelling briefly on the aforementioned liaison with Honoria. The other looked up from his drink at that and gave Algy an assessing look.

“Still I hear she’s just come back from Cannes so no doubt her heart is engaged to another” I continued blithely, “it’s a rum thing but every girl you meet in Cannes seems to start her tour there single and finish it with not only a fiancée but a veritable trail of broken hearts.”  
Algy turned away from a certain look in Biggles eyes and agreed, almost absently. We were expounding, if that means what I think it does, upon that very idea when the door opened again and the two girls were sort of bunged in, pushed from behind by Aunt Dahlia.

The standing and rearranging of seats and pouring out of drinks took the initial edge off the meeting but then we were all sort of stuck looking at each other and wondering at what point we could sample some of Anatole’s finest. Biggles didn’t seem to think much of it and had the look which Jeeves sometimes gets when he’s thinking of a new stratagem to rescue the y. master. My Aunt, having given us all a look like we were particularly poor specimens of humanity, leant across to Honoria, “Mr Lacey plays tennis, so I understand” she said. Well! Like a red rag to a bull! I got the idea that Algy did play tennis, now and again as a sort of relaxation after all the work he and the other chaps seemed to do, but the poor chap was now being grilled about it to the nth degree. The conversation continued as we moved through to dinner, and was last seen headed toward the topic of ‘The Importance to Society of Men who Work, and How it Makes Their Sinews Strong and Their Brains Expansive and Well Developed’ at a strong and steady pace.

The rest of us muddled along as best as we could, with Aunt Dahlia treating us to a lecture on the difficulties of running a magazine, and that was us for dinner. None of it particularly of interest, of course, aside from the fact that Honoria and Algy seemed to be stuck together like something that sticks, leaving the rest of us out in the cold. To me, as, I suspect to the others, conversation at my most noble of Aunt’s tables usually comes a distant second in comparison to the food. Tonight, for example, Anatole was treating us. My Uncle Tom having been bunged out for the night on account of having to visit one of these Harley St fellows early on the morrow (he was being fed at his club, and no doubt ruining his digestion at the same time), Anatole had pulled out all the stops. I had already eagerly put myself outside the _tablier de sapeur_ , a _tarte flambee_ , and the _oefs en cocotte au saumon fume_ , and was now regarding with some excitement the approaching _recette de croute au madere_. The same fare, and some of the most excellent wine, had also been poured into my dining companions and there was a definite air of relaxation and companionship as we sat in relative silence. The occasional murmurs was had between the men at the table, as Bigglesworth really was a most interesting chap and quite funny too, once you got over the fact that he spoke quietly and didn’t leap about the place when doing so. Still, I got the feeling that if given enough warning he’d be able to deport himself with some aplomb at the Drones. Eventually, having finally abandoned the scene of debauchery that is the table after an Anatole special, we moved off.  

It was some time later, having elected to pace the meadows with a heavy tread, that Aunt Dahlia hove into sight. “What ho, Aunt of my bosom!” I cried out.  
“Hello, blot” she replied, with a smile that did the soul good, “I daresay you’ll be turning in early tonight.”  
“Early? Why so? I was anticipating a late night with the aviator chappies. They’re good coves, really.”  
“Oh they are, are they?”  
“Well yes, they seem to be. Full of the vim and vigour of the man who travels much. All that sort of thing.”  
“Oh so you noticed it, did you?”  
“Yes I-“ I broke off, for the Auntly voice had not sounded its usual cheery self, “come come, aged r.” I cooed gently, “there is something biting you, isn’t there? No, don’t bother to deny it. Tell Bertram all.”  
“You ass.” Returned the aged r., with some little feeling, “you just don’t think, do you?”  
“I do!” I returned, pulling myself up to my full height and regarding her with a gimlet eye, whatever that may be.  
“No you don’t, you blighter. If you didn’t have a neck to keep your head on, well, you’d be looking pretty silly wandering around without it, that’s all I can say.” She chuckled, but it was an empty, hollow, sort of sound.

Well, all of this talking made me feel rather empty and hollow as well, so I suggested we begin our return to the house if she wasn’t going to talk with me. At that, which seemed to me a rather good suggestion and quite appropriate given the circumstances – viz., that I had finished my second cigarette and was thinking longingly of either bed or the decanter, whichever came first – I was sat down on the nearest bench and told to behave myself. Duly, I sat, and listened most carefully to the words my Aunt was spewing forth.

Well, the long and the short of it was that she – my Aunt – had made some cunning plans involving self and the girls. She would play them off against the other and end up with one of them permanently attached at the ankle to yours truly. She was proud of this plan, mark you! This dastardly plan was based on the psychology of the individual, in full Jeevesian fashion, tied up in the well-known fact that girls like a man of action, the sort of man who can jump in front of a moving 'bus and pluck the small child from under its wheels, or whatever sort of action is _de rigeour_ amongst the well-bred chappie these days. I had always imagined that small children from busses was very _passe_ , and that the thing to do now was to rescue the girls pet dog (or cat, should she have a cat instead) from danger, but my Aunt squashed my idea firmly so I returned to listening.

To continue, in the hopes of showing Bertie as a man of action, and in the continuing hope of gaining the sort of notoriety for _Milady’s Boudoir_ as other, more prominent periodicals enjoyed, my Aunt had had the brilliant idea of engineering a small danger which self could rescue a girl from. She was counting on it being a big splash and entering the papers round about the area, at which point the Boudoir would run an exclusive interview with the lady in question, accompanied by something noble and impressive from self, and boost the ratings a little bit. Having thus created a stir, and got me engaged, she would then run the next few numbers of the Boudoir with hits from la Moorehead, la Craye, and others of that ilk. I wasn’t quite sure why Florence Craye would want to be involved, or even if what she wrote was the sort of thing the masses were interested in, play adaptions of Spindrift not-withstanding, but there it was.

“And there it is!” Aunt Dahlia concluded, “So simple a child could follow it. So simple even you can follow it, Bertie! But, the key here is that we don’t want any broken hearts. A woman scorned is a woman to be very wary of. So, the fact that there are two other men in the picture to engage the affections of one of the girls is like manna from heaven.” And here she clapped her hands like a little girl and looked up at the sky.  
“Oh fine” I said, even though the heart had sunk well past the feet by now and was somewhere on its way to China, “but, Aunt Dahlia, I must ask if you have run this scheme past Jeeves? For if Jeeves hasn’t approved it, I’m not sure if I can be enticed to carry it out.”  
“Bertie” snapped Aunt Dahlia, “you will do this little thing, and you will like it!” Seeing that any further protestations were to fall upon deaf ears, I stood, adjusted the jacket, and offered her my arm, “then shall we go in?” I enquired, as politely as I could, “it sounds as though we’d best check up on Algy holding Honoria’s attentions for long enough.”

We needn’t have worried. Upon walking into the lounge again, we found Honoria and Algy engaged in a spirited discussion about shooting things, with Biggles sort of hovering around the edges and Daphne nowhere to be found. I was chivvied out of the room to find her, and the door shut firmly in my face, so I didn’t get to hear any more about the shooting which is a shame as by the sounds of the noises of glee coming from the room, Algy and Biggles had done their fair share of shooting at animals somewhat more threatening than a fox.

I stumbled into the drawing room, shot a glance into the dining room in case the girl had trotted in for some odd reason, and then to bed.

“Jeeves” I said, as he prepared the bed for self, “rally round and listen to what Aunt Dahlia has decided.” He listened with a grave expression on his face, and paused quite three seconds when I had finished. “Most disturbing Sir” he murmured, in a gently reproving tone, like the look he used when considering an errant crease upon the trouser.  
“Yes it is” I babbled, “more to the point, it seems flawed. There are too many…oh what’s the word? Fish come into it somewhere.”  
“Imponderables, is the word you are looking for I believe Sir. Not fish, if you’ll pardon me, but a body of water. The pond, Sir.”  
“Yes, that’s it. Imponderables.” I considered this for a moment then continued, “She seems to have got it into her head that women only like a man who can rush out and do things, Jeeves. Well, I can rush out and do things, as you well know, but I shan’t be wound up and shoved in the direction she wants. It would be alright if I wanted to be married to the beazel, but I don’t.” I gave him a longing look at this and he answered with a slight uptick of his mouth. “What is it they say about rushing out and doing things, Jeeves? It speaks, doesn’t it?”  
“You may be thinking of the quote from Shakespeare, Sir. “Action is Eloquence”, from _Coriolanus._ Alternatively you may be thinking of the commonly held maxim that deeds speak louder than words.”  
“Hmm. The second I suppose. I can’t say Coriolanus rings any bells”  
“A tragedy, Sir”  
“What, that good, is it?”  
“Pardon me Sir, I should have said that the play itself is of the tragic turn.”  
“So it _isn’t_ any good?”  
“On the contrary Sir, the play itself is one that I have had cause to appreciate.”  
“So what’s so tragic about it then?”  
“Well, Sir, the main character, Coriolanus, sets about making a new life for himself as a politician. He was previously a military commander, and as such has little skill in the style of leadership needed for politics. In short, Sir, he brings about his own downfall.”  
“Because he tries to do something he can’t, you mean?”  
“Indeed Sir.”  
“But at the time he is busy telling us that action is eloquence”  
“Well Sir, it is not actually Coriolanus who makes that statement, but Volumnia, his mother. Volumnia, Sir, is the name Shakespeare uses, however traditionally she has been known as Veturia. The difference in the name can be-“  
“Never mind, Jeeves.”  
“I’m sorry Sir.”  
“Save it for the long winter evenings.”  
“I shall, Sir.”

I stretched out my legs, sipping my drink and considering my options. “What are my options, Jeeves?”  
“Well Sir, you could carry out the plan Mrs Travers has outlined.”  
I gave him a withering look, and he continued, “the alternative, Sir, is that once again we show that neither Miss Braythwayt nor Miss Glossop are appropriate mates for you, whilst simultaneously arranging for a large number of young ladies to purchase _Milady’s Boudoir_.”  
“Yes Jeeves. I vote we carry out the second scheme of yours. Not the one with Mrs Travers in it. Your scheme.” I pondered for a moment more, sure there was something important itching away in my brain. “Aha!” I exclaimed, “Jeeves! When I first arrived, Mrs Travers said that she had a problem to put to you.”  
“Mrs Travers is very kind, Sir.”  
“Yes, well, not that kind. She intimated that the only reason she had invited me to partake of the ambrosial offerings of Anatole was because of you. You told me only tonight that she had asked for your assistance on this matter. So, from this I deduce that either you have yet to think of a plan, or that you have concocted this scheme and for reasons of your own you think that it shall work to solve all of our problems.” I regarded him with the light of triumph in my eye. He presented me with a small smile.

“You are correct, Sir. Whilst I did not immediately think of this particular way of solving Mrs Travers’ problems, it seemed to me that some good may come of the actions and in the meantime we could ready a contingency plan. For example, Miss Glossop seems most attracted to Mr Lacey, whilst Miss Braythwayt is the sort of young lady who, whilst initially interested in a man who has rescued her from imminent danger, appreciates a certain routine in her personal life which would be easy to upset in order to thwart her attentions. The act of writing up the interview with the young lady is not, thankfully, our responsibility.”  
“You’ve got a good point there, Jeeves. But what about the readership? Girls don’t just rush for the nearest bookstore to read about some other girl not getting hit on the head by a ‘bus, or a train, or whatever it may be.”  
“That is true Sir.” He placed his finger briefly to his lips, which produced that every so intelligent looking moue that they do when his fish fed brain is busy bubbling away. “The audience would increase if a person involved was well known to them, Sir.”  
“Well, that counts me and Daphne out then. Neither of us are well known.”  
“That is true, Sir. However were Major Bigglesworth to carry out the sort of activity Mrs Travers has planned…”  
I goggled. “Jeeves” I exclaimed, “You’re losing it. If Mrs Travers thought that getting old Bigglesworth to jump in and out of dangerous situations with a girl on his arm would get me engaged, the poor man would spend the rest of his life doing just that.” Sometimes I do wonder if carrying the brains for the both of us is a bit much for the fellow. I mean, he is my paragon of paragons and all but sometimes, well, one wonders. “Pardon me, Sir, but if Mrs Travers were led to believe that you yourself were otherwise engaged, so to speak, then I doubt she would mind the change of place too much. After all, Sir, her real concern is her publication and not, if you will pardon me for saying so, your marriage.”  
“And long may it continue, Jeeves” I vowed, “alright, I’ll do it. What do I need to do?”  
“I would suggest you appear off your food at lunch Sir, and then make an excuse that you are missing your young lady in london, and that you feel you must go to her. With you out of the way, Major Bigglesworth will be requested to act by Mrs Travers, and I shall message you when the – ahem – danger has passed.”  
“Jeeves” I said, as I climbed into the pyjamas and thus to bed, “I have said it before. You stand alone. You are the last word in brainy schemes.”  
“Thank you, Sir.”  
“Thank you, Jeeves” I returned, generously, settling into the pillows with a happy wriggle, as content as a child which has found its way to the nursery.

Jeeves stood looking down at me for a moment and I met his gaze with a sad one of my own. No matter the comforts that we might enjoy whilst in our own home back in the dizzying excitement of London, once the bedroom door is opened it is as though a thick curtain has come down over that part of our life. It is times like these, when Jeeves is standing so very close to me, and both of us longing to curl up together like two puppies in a basket, that the curtain shifts slightly. It might do one thing, it might do another. Tonight, it shifted so much that for a few delightful moments he and I were holding hands, and I was being gifted with the soppiest expression another has ever bestowed upon me. I don’t know quite what my face was doing in response but it seemed to please the old thing as he went a touch pink around the ears. “Good night, Sir” he murmured, very quietly, relinquishing my hand and stepping back half a pace.  
“Good night, Jeeves” I returned, my eyes only dropping once he had left the room. He really is a marvel of a man.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order of reference, the poems mentioned are 'The Sunne Rising' (John Donne), and 'I wondered lonely as a cloud' (Wordsworth). Daphne's comment about flowers is one by Emerson. 
> 
> I cannot articulate enough my thanks to wateroverstone for her help, for listening patiently to my ramblings, and to putting me right when I wandered well off the beaten track. All I can say is a heartfelt thankyou.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad” Algy opined as they hung up coats and hats and Biggles took their gloves to their ‘respective’ bedrooms. “You seemed to enjoy it” he agreed, returning rather quickly to the fire Algy was just stirring up, “lots of talk about horse riding and shooting things.” Algy had the grace to pause in front of him, giving him a reassuring smile on his way through to the kitchen. “She did sort of latch on” he admitted, clattering about and apparently thinking he was hiding a cough or two.

“At least she didn’t invite us to a hunt” Biggles commented, coming through and gently shifting Algy out of the way so he could finish getting the kettle boiling for their tea. “Now go and sit down for goodness sake. If you keep on going like that I’ll think I’ve a seal rather than a man in the room. You’re barking like you wouldn’t believe.”  
“I think it’s sea lions, not seals” Algy remarked mildly, obediently heading back to the lounge, loosening his collar and generally showing his colours before settling back with a drink by his side for Biggles and the other in his own hands. “You’d look rather nice all done up for a hunt” he remarked when Biggles came through.  
“I’m sure I would” Biggles agreed complacently, “but I don’t have anything on me, and I don’t think you should be galloping about the place with that throat of yours.” Taking his drink he sat down opposite Algy.  
“I don’t know, it might be just the sort of thing to blow all the cobwebs away” Algy mused, sipping and then rather ruining any chance of argument he’d have had by coughing uproariously on the burn of alcohol as it hit the raw back of his throat.  
Biggles watched sympathetically, taking Algy’s drink so he could better wave his hands around – an activity which may not have helped but did seem to be something Algy liked to do when coughing. “Sorry” Algy gasped, settling back and wiping his eyes briefly.  
“Here you go.” Biggles passed the drink back, sipping his own again and giving Algy a half-smile. “Maybe you should stop drinking.”

  
Algy had a good laugh at that, eyeing Biggles indulgently over his glass. Biggles tried to work out if he preferred Algy like this, all dishevelled and relaxed, or how he had been earlier in the evening all spick and span and ready for an inspection. Realising he had possibly been staring rather over long and Algy was beginning to look rather self-conscious he murmured, “no matter the company, at least the food was good.”  
“Good!” Algy exclaimed, “It’d have to be several steps below what we had tonight to be described as good! That was more along the lines of sublime!”  
“Alright, sublime then” Biggles agreed, privately thinking that Algy might be cutting it a little high, “it was certainly repeatable”  
Algy nodded fervently, “if you can get some sort of standing invitation, I’ll never complain about anything again.”  
“Anything?” Biggles smirked, finishing his drink and setting the cup down, standing.  
Algy blushed furiously and tried to fix Biggles with a baleful glare, “oh go and make some tea then. You’re really too big to be ornamental.”

***

The next day, they were strolling along to the pub in search of some lunch when a boy ran up to them. “Hullo Bonzo” Biggles greeted him, with little enthusiasm. Bonzo was not a particularly attractive prospect to a man who wanted nothing more than some form of lunch and a pint or two before returning home to be slowly roasted in front of the fire prior to turning in for an early night. (“Just like a cat!” Algy had teased him when he announced his plans for the day. For his troubles, Algy had been forced to defend himself against a pillow attack.)  
“Hullo Sir” said Bonzo, dutifully. “Are you going in to the pub for lunch?” he added with odious inquisitiveness.  
“That was the plan” admitted Biggles.  
“Well, Mrs Travers wondered if you’d like to step up to the hall for lunch” Bonzo announced with a curious writhe, as though he were supressing something vile and inappropriate for viewing by strangers, “and if you do she’ll send the car down for you. ‘cause of his throat.” He added carelessly, glancing at Algy.  
Biggles also looked at Algy who was, he was amused to see, practically salivating at the idea of more of Anatole’s cooking. “We aren’t dressed for lunch” he demurred, and was given a filthy glance by his companion who was obviously more concerned with comestibles. “Oh it’s just us” Bonzo said. “Nobody dresses for lunch,” he added, perhaps eager on account of wanting to talk about aeroplanes, or more probably because Dahlia Travers was a very forceful woman who had threatened him with a fate worse than death if he did not engage the two aviators for lunch that very day.  
“Very well” Biggles sighed “race off and get the car and we’ll start walking up.”  
“Yes Sir!” Bonzo went haring off, throwing in some jumps for good measure. Biggles and Algy exchanged glances. “I wonder if Ginger runs like that” Algy commented, turning away from the pub and following Bonzo at a more sedate rate. “I’m sure he does, or used to at any rate” Biggles said idly, “I rather imagine most boys do at some stage or other.” Algy laughed as the image of Biggles, young and rather sickly looking, pranced through his mind. As if he could read his mind, Biggles’ cheeks took on a rather pinkish hue.

 

Lunch was up to the same impeccable standard as dinner had been, Biggles was pleased to note. Algy was rapidly devouring everything in sight and looking more and more like his old self again, blossoming under Biggles’ concerned gaze. They had been informed that Bertie had returned to London for a short period, but Biggles noted that Jeeves remained in service. His considerations on what that might mean were cut short by Mrs Travers, who was attempting to engage his attention. “Pardon?” Biggles replied, attempting to look as though he wasn’t imagining what her nephew and his valet might get up to behind closed doors.

“I was just saying how Miss Braythwayt was needing to go into the village this afternoon” Mrs Travers returned, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, “perhaps she could travel back with you. One does worry about making unnecessary work for people, doesn’t one?” Biggles, privately thinking that Mrs Travers had probably never worried about making unnecessary work for someone in her life, agreed politely. “We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we old boy?” he asked Algy, who, midway through a sip of the rather excellent wine, nodded. “We could make a party of it. No doubt the little chaps would like nothing better than a run in the car” Algy suggested when he decently could. Neither he nor Biggles were particularly enamoured with the idea of being saddled with a female all to themselves.  
“Oh, Oswald and Bonzo don’t want to be cooped up in a car!” Mrs Travers announced, “Much more fun for boys to be off running around.” Biggles regarded the two boys with something approaching doubt. They had the uncomfortable look about them of knowing they weren’t going to like what she had to say, but not being able to do anything about it. He had felt like that occasionally when confronted with an irascible CO.  
“Oswald and I were talking about bicycles yesterday” Honoria trumpeted, “I do think it’s important for a child’s body as well as their mind to be developed.” She looked like she wanted to say something else but then decided against it. “Well!” Mrs Travers concluded, “Bonzo and Oswald can take the bicycles into town and you can always take them back with you if they’re too pooped to make it up the hill, Daphne.” Her decision made, she turned towards the final course with what appeared to be a clear conscience. Biggles couldn’t help feeling that she was plotting something. Long exposure to dastardly acts and schemes had rendered him particularly sensitive to such ideas, but for the life of him he couldn’t work out what she might be thinking.

***

Somehow, Biggles and Daphne ended up alone for some time after lunch, ostensibly waiting for the car to be readied for another outing. Algy had been gathered up by Honoria so he could assist with kitting out the boys for their ride. Apparently his protestations that his mechanical skills left a lot to be desired unless directed towards an aeroplane had fallen on deaf ears. “It’s so refreshing to have a _man_ about the place” Honoria had proclaimed, marching off with him. Biggles hoped his friend would have the sense not to let things get too out of hand, though at the moment it did seem the pair were observing all the proprieties. So, there were Daphne and Biggles, sitting opposite each other in the vast drawing room of Brinkley Court.

Daphne, Biggles was coming to realise, was not the sort of woman he would ever have come across in the normal course of events. Given his work usually involved him flying to the outer corners of the empire in order to conduct some sort of dangerous undertaking, this said quite a lot. Biggles had met rather a large number of ladies in the normal course of events. Some of them had even been quite pleasant to chat to, though he hadn’t felt for any of them the sort of emotion which caused other men to do all sorts of bizarre things. He certainly hadn’t felt the overwhelming need, for example, to hold discourse with the Sun and instruct it in its duties, or any of the other frankly preposterous things men seemed to want to do when in love.

Looking at Daphne, Biggles realised he couldn’t say any of these things to her. The girl clearly wanted some sort of gentle conversation. He tried to remember the sorts of things Algy would say in these circumstances but they didn’t sit well on his tongue. “How are you liking your visit so far, Miss Braythwayt? Do you come to Brinkley Court often?” He wondered if she was the sort of girl who would give him a lecture if he pulled out his cigarette case.  
“Oh it’s simply marvellous” she simpered, “I come here sometimes, not all that often really but once or twice a year you know, when Mrs Travers invites a group of us down, and every time it’s lovely. There’s so much space here, and the dearest little flowers and-” she rattled on in this vein for some time. Once Biggles had got over his shock at hearing the impressive rose garden described as ‘the little bees happy little home’, he was able to murmur indistinctly at intervals. This seemed to be as much as he was required to do and he carefully drew out his silver cigarette case.

“Would you care for a smoke, Miss Braythwayt?” He offered, wondering when the dickens they’d be off.  
“Oh _no_ thank you Major Bigglesworth. No, I don’t smoke. I do think it’s really something only _men_ should do. It makes a ladies voice so horrible and growly, don’t you think?”  
Biggles, taking this as permission to smoke himself, opened his case, “I can’t say I’ve particularly noticed it” he admitted frankly. She looked a little shocked at this and he said hastily, “you were telling me about the grounds outside.” As he lit up and tried to relax in his chair, she gushed on.  
“Don’t you think, Major Bigglesworth, that the earth laughs in flowers? It’s such a lovely notion.” She stood, gracefully, and moved over to the window, looking out at the masses of gardens with a complacent air. Biggles, who was not a particular fan of American poetry, nodded, “it is a lovely notion.” He agreed, rather wildly.

Thankfully, having once been even a little encouraged in the recitation of verse, Daphne was more than happy to prattle on about poetry. She certainly had some ideas, Biggles thought! He himself had read widely and was conversant with the authors and works she referenced, but at no stage had he ever considered himself as ‘lonely as a cloud’ whilst flying, and he could not say he was particularly fond of daffodils in and of themselves.

It was with some thankfulness that he stood as Honoria came into the room, Algy following behind and looking none the worse off for mucking about with grease and a tyre pump. “You aren’t boring Major Bigglesworth are you, Daphne dear?” Honoria laughed, coming in and sitting down with enough force that the chair moved slightly.  
“Miss Braythwayt has been telling me all about the gardens here” Biggles said truthfully, giving Algy a look as the latter looked like he, too, might light up a smoke. “It was very interesting” he added, finishing his cigarette and trying to look like he meant what he said.  
“You do love flowers.” Honoria remarked fondly, “you must have been busy, you don’t even have your outdoor things! You’d better take your thick coat, it looks like it could get even colder and you know how you are with the cold.” As Daphne hurried off, Honoria smiled at Biggles and Algy, “the boys will be so glad if they beat you to the village” she said, with the sort of look that Biggles knew meant that the boys had better jolly well not be beaten into the village by the car. “They’ve got two jolly nice machines for it” Algy remarked, following Biggles to the door, “but they’ve got a head start on us and it’s all downhill pretty much. Take care Miss Glossop. Perhaps we’ll see you again.” He practically rushed Biggles out the door, the two men standing awkwardly in the entrance hall.

Mrs Travers was waiting for them. They made their thanks and goodbyes and then stood around, waiting for Daphne to return from her room. “It’s so nice of you to not mind about Daphne coming along too” Mrs Travers cooed, in the way that made Biggles convinced there was something up, “Honoria’s a lovely girl but I think she can be a bit much sometimes for a girl like Daphne. Daphne’s rather a delicate thing.”  
Algy and Biggles, who had both privately used a different word to ‘delicate’, nodded and made understanding noises. “I wonder if you’d mind just making sure she gets back here safely?” Mrs Travers continued, “You needn’t come back up of course but if I knew there was someone ensuring she got back into the car…she can be so absent minded.”  
Biggles’ response was interrupted by a gentle sound that put him in mind of a sheep. “Pardon me, Madam, but the car is ready now.” Jeeves had appeared, carrying Daphne’s hat and throwing open the front door. Daphne, looking smaller and more delicate in her fur-lined coat, accepted her hat and moved out to the car. Biggles walked briskly out in case he was called upon to open the door, but thankfully the driver saw to that. She got in the back seat and he followed, trying not to look the way he felt. Algy, having thanked Mrs Travers again, was walking slowly down the steps in conference with Jeeves. He shook Jeeves’ hand before getting in the car and Biggles reminded himself that Jeeves was already in a relationship, and so was Algy.  
Perhaps he did understand some of the things love made people do.

The moved off, and in front of them they saw two small figures on large bicycles, both peddling furiously. With some tact they managed to pass the boys and then get passed in turn, and it was a testimony to the drivers’ careful use of the accelerator that they arrived moments after the boys had tumbled off their bikes. As Daphne was being handed out of the car, Algy passed on to Biggles what Jeeves had passed on to him. The older man pulled a face and sent the boys into the sweet shop to get a twist of something each. Daphne stepped into the chemists and Biggles pulled Algy aside, “can’t we stop the beastly boys from doing something?”  
“Have you seen Mrs Travers? I don’t think we can undo something she’s put into their heads to get done. I suppose it won’t hurt really.”  
“It had better bally well not. I’m all for doing a good turn but this is about the limit. Surely there’s a better way of getting her rotten magazine into circulation.”  
“Well I’d imagine getting it publishing something good would be a solid start, but I don’t think that’s something we can help. All you have to do is grab her arm and pull, any fool can do that.” Algy smiled sweetly at Biggles, “she’ll probably go all faint and then give you a kiss whilst clinging to you.”  
Biggles paled at the very idea.  
One village over, the ancient bus creaked into life.  
The two men racked their brains to think of an alternative but, knowing very little about the reading market of Milady’s Boudoir (neither of them ever having been 19 years old girls who firmly believed stars were gods daisy chain), were unable to do so.

“Jeeves says usually it’s Bertie who does this sort of thing” Algy remarked, “he hopes you’ll pardon them for getting you dragged up in this.” Biggles gave Algy a look which suggested that he wasn’t about to go handing out pardons that quickly. “Where is Bertie?” he asked instead, “safely out of it I presume?”  
“Hiding in London until tomorrow,” Algy agreed, “and apparently all kinds of grateful.” After a pause, he added, “I suppose the dratted magazine has one of those agony aunt columns and something on how to be the perfect wife, and a puzzle page? Seems to me if it’s not selling well it must be missing out on something the others are doing.”  
“You’re going dotty” Biggles remarked, “you can’t tell me you’re really that concerned about Mrs Travers’ Boudoir?”  
“Well you have to admit it’s the sort of problem we haven’t come across before. Magazine circulation isn’t something we’re often called upon to consider.”  
“That’s because the only magazine we read is _Flight_ ” Biggles said mildly, and not entirely accurately. “No reason to worry about a low circulation there.”  
  
The bus creaked closer. Oswald and Bonzo, clutching their packets of sweets, sauntered down the road a little way, before Bonzo stopped and Oswald moved on ahead, sucking an aniseed ball meditatively.

When it happened, it happened very quickly, as Biggles had known it would. Bonzo called out, and Daphne rushed across the road, not noticing the bus. Biggles, with a weary glance at Algy, put on a turn of speed and rushed her across the road as the bus bore down. His hat and her parcel were irreparably damaged by the bus, and they fetched up on the other side of the street breathless and flushed. Algy joined them moments later, loudly proclaiming what a lucky thing it was they hadn’t been more hurt. From that moment on, they were surrounded by a throng who all discussed the activities in great detail.

The hubbub got louder when Oswald asked, with a turn of theatrical skill which no doubt drove his mother demented, whether Daphne had just been rescued by a decorated fighter ace. A photographer turned up. Photographs were taken. Autographs were signed. Daphne was led away to the car by a solicitous Biggles. All in all, Algy reflected as he looked around the village, this was quite the stir. A young newspaper man with more enthusiasm than sense dispatched a report to a London paper. It was a quiet day for news. Biggles was a household name. Daphne looked sweet and innocent. There were ties to the nobility. The story ran. Mrs Travers was delighted.

The next day, in fact, she sent Jeeves down to the cottage, bearing gifts and a scented note from Daphne.

Bertie, sitting in his flat in London and missing Jeeves, heard the newspaper boy shout out and, wanting something to do, got himself a paper. The story amused him greatly and he ached to get back to Brinkley Court to find out the details. Unable to do so, however, he instead got up again and this time dressed himself to go out with great care. Jeeves would have approved, he thought dully.

***

“You’re quite the hero” Algy said smiling, opening their cottage door after they’d escaped the crowd, “that was a neat bit of work.” He hung up his coat and hat, unwinding his scarf thoughtfully and giving Biggles another smile, “thanks for going through with it.”  
“I still don’t think it’ll work” Biggles grumbled, “but I couldn’t leave her to be hit by a bus, no matter how dotty she is.” His own outer layers shod, and his hat disposed of, he stirred up the fire again, building it up to a hearty blaze and sitting Algy down in front of it. “I can only hope this doesn’t get us into trouble.” He added, a touch moodily, lighting two cigarettes and passing one to Algy. Algy, inhaling deeply, frowned, “I don’t see how it can” he remarked, stretching out and then curling up a little, “as far as anyone knows you were just a good citizen doing his duty. It’s not like von Stalhein is out here looking for you.” He gave Biggles a worried look, “he isn’t, is he?”  
“Who, von Stalhein? I shouldn’t think so.” As their cigarette smoke drifting towards the fire, Biggles added, “I think we might have to lock the doors tomorrow. I should think there’ll be any number of visitors.”  
“Remember Mrs Blenkinsopp and Mrs Smith” Algy grinned, “We might finally have given them something else to talk about.”  
“So long as they don’t turn up with something frightful and hand knitted” Biggles smiled back, “or too early. Your cough seems much better.”  
Algy grinned, “You’re incorrigible! I’m beginning to think we need some sort of holiday cottage of our own. You never used to be this bad!”  
Biggles huffed, “I never used to share an apartment with two other men” he pointed out reasonably. Algy rolled his eyes “I’m fairly sure Bertie, at least, wouldn’t be at all concerned if he knew”  
“What about Ginger?”  
“What about him? He’s so full of hero worship he doesn’t think you can do anything wrong. He wouldn’t turn us in.”  
“There’s a difference between not turning us in and listening to the two of us make the beast with two backs. The walls aren’t thick enough to make the idea particularly safe.”  
“I’m not suggesting we get down and dirty on the breakfast table in amongst the kippers.” Algy said peaceably, “just that you needn’t sit there holding it all down if you’d rather not.”  
“I still don’t want to make an announcement of it.” Biggles pulled a face, “though it might make life easier for Bertie, as you say.”  
Algy chuckled, “do stop talking about him, there’s a good chap. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just too shy to talk about it.”  
For once, Biggles seemed inclined to agree, and allowed Algy to join him in the big chair.

 ***

No matter the opinion of Algy and Biggles, Bertie wasn’t exactly what he would describe as ‘fine’. However, let alone for the night, he had a plan to solve this particular problem.

Fixing his monocle more firmly in his eye, Lissie strode into the club, walking up to the bar and letting the movement of his fingers against the carved wood soothe him as he waited for his drink. Only once he had the cool glass pressed into his left palm did he turn around to survey who else was in this outwardly typical English bar. The dim lighting, smoke from numerous cigarettes, cigars, and pipes, and the dark wood panelling combined to create an atmosphere of intimacy that was enhanced by the dark paper on the walls. Brightly coloured neckwear provided spots of colour, as did the occasional florid waistcoat, but in general the clientele appeared to be staid members of the upper-middle class of the great city of London. Taking his drink, Bertie wended his way through the groups of chairs for a particularly comfortable looking leather couch near the middle of the room. Sinking into it he took another sip of his whiskey and soda and smiled vaguely around, wondering if there was anyone here that he knew and wanted to talk with.

“I say” A cheerful voice accosted him, “Long time no see, what?”

Looking up Bertie saw a gent wearing the same black as everyone else, with the addition of a cheerfully striped tie and matching handkerchief. “Hullo!” He exclaimed, standing and shaking hands, “care for a pew?”

***

This Wooster was just wondering if there was any particular reason to be at this club, somewhat more soothing than the Drones at the present moment, when the eagle eye that had stood Woosters in good stead over centuries of fighting the good fight espied an old acquaintance. We’d got confused by his friends (the ones whose battles with Aunt Dahlia had resulted in prominence in the evening press) and I’d ended up pretending to be him for what they call in the books ‘a big sting’. At least it was someone to talk with on what had been shaping up to be a lonely evening. Funny, given said friends were the chaps I’d strapped on the nosebag with the night before.

‘Lonely?’ I hear you ask, ‘is this the same Wooster who has tied himself to that paragon Jeeves and has thus at his disposal the greatest mind in England? Lonely? Bertram Wooster?’ Well truth be told yes, I was lonely at the moment. Jeeves was not currently sharing my bedroom, as we were staying with the aforementioned Aunt, and it was rather wearing on the soul. That I knew from his regular looks that he also felt the separation keenly did not, on this particular Saturday night, encourage me to stay at home and brood. I would be back with him the next day, of course, but that did not mean we could fall into each other’s arms, as it would not do to be discovered by one’s nearest and dearest, even if the n. and d. were as broad minded as my Aunt Dahlia. So, having hied it up to London to stay out of the way, I was left to enjoy myself as best I could, which meant tonight going to the club and having a chat with some like-minded friends who might understand how I was feeling.

“Care for a pew?” I accepted with a smile sure to warm the heart of any recipient, sipping my own b. and s. thankfully. “I didn’t know you came here old fellow” I enquired, stretching my feet out thankfully and settling further into the fast-warming leather.  
“I don’t often.” He admitted with what I thought was a funny look in his eye, “but sometimes its…necessary.”  It took me a moment to cotton on to what he was saying. Being with Jeeves has encouraged my brain to become swift and incisive in a way school never had, but as my Aunts would agree, the old noggin is still far from the fish-fed wonder of Jeeves. “Necessary” I murmured, “yes, of course.” His monocle screwed in again, wispy moustache patted, he murmured quietly, “I did wonder when we first met….your valet?” The last was murmured even more quietly, rivalling the volume of sheep conversing in wintry dampness on far-away hillsides which Jeeves was wont to use in company. I glanced at Bertie again, swallowing another mouthful of the old restorer as I set the noggin to nodding.

Well! His reaction was immediate! It was as though I’d given that old fellow a snifter of Jeeves’ patented restorer and possibly some spiffing news about a favoured Aunt as well. All of a sudden the night had got a lot less lonely and there was a sniffle of something sprightly and enticing in the air.

***

Bertie smiled a slightly triumphant smile, pleased that he had worked that out and not caused any embarrassment. “I did think so,” sipping his drink he added, “Did you know each other before he was your valet?”  
“No, he worked for me for months before we did anything.” Wooster downed his drink, ordering another for each of them, “is that something you’ve pursued?”

Bertie unscrewed his monocle for the final time, slipping it into the top pocket of his waistcoat, stirring his drink and shaking his head sadly. “I don’t have a valet. My friends – the ones you met in the hospital – share a flat with me. Ginger’s out with his new girl tonight and the other two are off in the country somewhere.” The wistful tone in his voice wasn’t completely hidden, Bertie W picking up on it and nodding understanding. “They’re staying down near my Aunt, as a matter of fact. I had dinner with them last night. I know all about it. Makes you a bit of a fourth wheel, doesn’t it?”

“Oh no. Well, it makes life a little difficult, but none of them are together. I mean, Ginger has a girl, as I said, and the other two are just, well, they’ve known each other for so long, you see. Rather a natural thing. Besides” Bertie added, inconsequentially, “I can’t imagine Biggles taking a wife at this late stage.”

The other man shuddered, “No I should bally well think not. All very well when one has to impress an Aunt or something, but no. Not for a steady diet.” They both laughed the laughter of men who understand each other.

***

I felt jolly sorry for the poor old blighter. He’d seemed like a nice enough chap the first time we’d met, and subsequent meetings only served to underline this. Not that Jeeves needed to be worried, for I like my men rather along the lines of strapping and intelligent, with a head that sticks out at the back (on account of the brains), and dark silky hair which looks ravishing when slicked back with brilliantine. Rather like Jeeves, in essence. But Bertie seemed rather lovely and if I hadn’t been all cosied up with my own specific dream rabbit perhaps we’d have had some fun. He looked like he could do with some, is what I’m trying to say.

“So, old thing, you can’t tell me there haven’t been offers before.” I remarked in what I hoped was a semi-casual air, “I shouldn’t like to be cramping your style and all that, is what I mean.” He looked rather amused at this and I hoped I hadn’t put my foot in it. We Woosters are liable to do so, don’t you know.

“Oh I’m not hunting with any seriousness” he assured me, “as I said, with three other men kicking around underfoot at home, and then being dragged off around the place at a moment’s notice, I don’t think it’s going to be a goer, finding a man.” He took another sip, rolling the glass around in his hands, and then looked up, with a shy sort of air around him. I have friends who wear that air every other day, and have learnt to recognise it in their faces as a precursor to discussions about a girl.  
“Can I tell you something, Bertie?” He asked, leaning towards me, and once I had nodded the old onion he went on. “I had a man, once. He was a dashing fellow. The sort of chap a man is proud to call his own, you know the type. The One, you know?” I said I knew, and settled back to take another sip. This looked like it could get dashed interesting. “What happened?” I asked, when there seemed to be no further words forthcoming. He gave me the sort of look Jeeves reserves for my brightly checked spats or a white mess jacket, only more as though I’d confronted Jeeves with a platoon of the things. “Tom, his name was. Tom the Tommy.” I suddenly knew where this was going and hastily ordered two more drinks. He didn’t seem to notice. “I mean, really he was Richard Harrison but everyone called him Tom on account of having every Tom, Dick, and Harry in his name. Like a joke, you see.” He smiled at that and I relaxed enough to laugh. It was rather a good name, as names went. Better than Oofy, that was for sure.

“We met a few years before the war and it was wonderful, then of course we had to sign up. I said he should steer clear of the Army and come across to us but his father and his fathers’ father and so on had all been jolly old regiment men so there it was.” Bertie tossed back the last of his drink in a careless manner, “one day I got a letter returned saying he was dead, and that was that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'showing his colours' is a term that refers to a chap adopting 'relaxed dress' following a meal. It refers to the habit of military types of embroidering one side of their cummerbund (usually with SQN colours) - at the end of the meal once the VIPs/ members of the head table have departed, individuals are allowed to turn their cummerbunds over to reveal their colours, to loosen their clothing (which may have become tighter due to a few too many drinks or bites of food), and to generally relax prior to their removal to the bar.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References for allusions and quotes are:
> 
> "The people who look after us and make us happy really do help with making our little gardens bloom." — Marcel Proust (the original: "Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”)  
> "Even in the desert the land rejoices and blooms and all the little flowers will be so abundant." - The Bible, Isaiah 35:1-2 (the original, depending on translation, goes roughly like this: "The desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.")  
> "Nursing her wrath to keep it warm" - Robert Burns  
> "Song (I had a dove and the sweet dove died)" - John Keats  
> Sonnets from the Portuguese, number VII ("The face of all the world is changed, I think") - Elizabeth Barrett Browning (quoted as "I am fain to drink" - which is from line eight)  
> "Wild Nights" - Emily Dickenson  
> "Song: To Celia (Drink to me only with thine eyes)" - Ben Jonson

His companion looked shocked, almost hurt, and Bertie wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Then Bertie reached out his hand and clasped the pilot’s, fingers stilling his trembling ones, and he looked up. There was a wealth of sympathy in those eyes and the airman wondered how he’d gone on without someone saying how sorry they were. “That’s awful” the other Bertie murmured, “no wonder you’re not haring down the back for a look around.” The words were rather mundane but the voice said that the speaker meant them, and Bertie Lissie suddenly had to close his eyes and turn his hand over, gripping the other’s tightly in his, taking a few deep breaths to compose himself. “Sorry” he said shakily, “deuced silly of me, after all this time.”  
“Not at all. Quite understandable.” Suddenly there was a body next to him and two hands on his. Bertie felt strangely comforted, like maybe one day he wouldn’t have to rely on chance encounters in a club, and flying around the world, for his solace. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Bertie sapped of energy and not at all interested in moving, and the other Bertie seemingly not in a rush to do anything. Eventually, however, the younger man sat up a little. “I say” he murmured, “what was your Tom’s favourite drink?”  
“Brandy” Bertie answered vaguely, wondering what sort of question that was.  
“Wait right here old thing!” And he was alone, but the cold, dead, space inside him was a bit softer around the edges, and it didn’t seem to bother him as much as it usually did. In any event, his solitude didn’t last long, as his companion reappeared carrying two glasses full to the top of what appeared to be very excellent brandy. “I hope you don’t think it’s frightful cheek” he remarked, sitting down and passing a glass to Bertie, as if suddenly struck with his own audacity, “but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”  
“Thank you” Bertie returned, smiling weakly. It was a nice gesture, he thought, as he picked up the glass. Together they toasted Tom, and Bertie was pleased to find that he was right – the brandy was excellent.

After that, things cheered up a bit. They talked about Tom a bit – well, Bertie talked and his companion listened and interjected now and then – and about other men they had known (it turned out the pilot wasn’t alone in appreciating the freedom of another country such as France), and settled in for a nice chat. At some stage in the evening a few other men drifted over and they ended up in a rather lively corner.

***

Poor chap had had a tough time of it, but he seemed to be feeling rather more ooja-cum-spiff about things once we’d had a good chin wag and toasted the poor fellow Tom, as I’d come to think of old Richard Harrison. Sounded like a nice fellow.

Both of us being rather more tight than we had been upon arriving, and self having happily bankrolled several rounds of alcohol, at this point we were gathering others around us like bees to a honey pot. It was all rather dashing, I remember thinking, as one fellow squirmed in next to me and another attempted to ingratiate himself by buying the next round. The next thing I knew, there were a dozen of us chaps all sitting around and talking as though we’d known each other for years. The one three seats down from Bertie seemed to be wishing he’d got in on the thing at the ground floor because he was forever leaning over the two others to draw Bertie’s attention to some trifling incident or other. Somehow this always involved him touching the pilot’s knee or forearm. I hoped my new friend knew what was happening. It could be rather tiresome trying to tell a chap you weren’t interested, although that paled into insignificance when compared with telling a beazel the same. At least a chap didn’t usually have Aunts and a Mother hanging around asking when you were going to make him an honest man.

My own lap was steadily being encroached upon by a chappie’s rather large and eager hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as a prude and am generally more than happy to get some attention, but the hand was wandering, dash it! Nobody but one R. Jeeves was allowed such liberties with the Wooster corpus. Yet again, I placed my fingers around the chappies wrist and tried to let him know without so many words that I wasn’t interested in playing that game tonight. He wasn’t best pleased and it took some little time to get rid of the fellow. My attention having been thus on another topic for several minutes, it was a surprise to turn back and find the rest of the chappies were in the process of sloping off. At first I thought this was because of my less than suave treatment of the bounder who’d been making liberties with the W. corpus, but further investigation proved this was not the case.

Bertie – Lissie, obviously, as I am not one to go about talking in the third person, as I believe the dons call it when you go about referring to yourself by name rather than saying ‘I’ – Bertie, as I was saying, was the one who had instigated the sloping. Remember the man I had mentioned before, the one who kept trying to wriggle closer? Well, he had somehow managed to wriggle in beside the pilot and was now not so much beside him as on him. The two of them seemed to be rather lost in their own little world. Made it dashed awkward for the rest of us chaps, who weren’t at that moment quite so occupied. There was a general understanding that such displays were better off down the back, where screens and curtains had been arranged for those desirous of taking up the more Eros side of the ancient Greeks. Perhaps Bertie just wasn’t aware of it. I looked around rather wildly, in the fashion of a man who is used to having a Jeeves in his life and is only now aware that said Jeeves isn’t there to help or to guide, and decided if nobody else was going to intervene, I had better do so. They probably thought I knew the fellow better than I do, given I had walked in and sat down next to him.

“I say” I attempted, placing a hand on Bertie’s shoulder, “I say old fruit” but my words went unheeded. I wasn’t entirely surprised at this, as usually by the time I am in the same position Bertie was – viz. with a set of eager arms wrapped around the old torso, and a willing tongue in close proximity to my own – I’m not really one to be enticed away by idle conversation. Still, one has to try. This time, rather than relying on my voice, I elected to employ the laying on of hands, so to speak. The sensation of four pairs of hands on him seemed to jerk Bertie out of the trance he’d fallen into.  
“Yes?” He sort of snapped out, apparently not best pleased. I couldn’t exactly blame him.  
“Just wondering if perhaps this would be better off in the back of the place. If you know what I mean.” Looking rather dazed, Bertie’s partner pressed up against him. I had to admire him, though he wasn’t a patch on Jeeves of course.

He had a moustache which wasn’t something I had really thought I liked, but on him it looked right. It was a lot more substantial than Bertie’s, and seemed to be just the ticket if the way Bertie’s chest was heaving was anything to go by. Overall he was broader than either of us striplings, but not as broad as Jeeves, and his thighs looked like they were used to him carrying out physical activity on a regular basis. He looked like a thoroughly nice chap, the sort you see on his way to a nice tidy office, but there was a dash of devilment in his eyes.

“Not that I mind you two getting to know each other” I hastened to add, lest the chap think I wanted Bertie, “just, well, it makes it a touch awkward for the rest of us you know.”  
They seemed to think about it for a moment before Bertie caught another press of the old labials, and the other chappy oozed off him. Moments later they disappeared like a magician had waved his wand over their spot, and the rest of us settled back down. Watching the two of them made me miss Jeeves most awfully, but I reminded myself it wouldn’t be much longer now, and settled in to have a good time. There’s one thing I’ll say for those fellows – they know how to have a good time.

***

Biggles was startled from his reverie by a hearty knock on their front door. Algy, his improved cough notwithstanding, was still asleep, and James had been sitting up, one hand on Algy’s hair and the other holding his book, enjoying the intimate morning. Not that being rather more athletic with Algy wasn’t one of his favourite ways to wake up, but sometimes the less grandiose moments were the ones which caused the most pleasure. James had been more relaxed that morning than he could remember being in weeks, just him and his book and Algy slumbering at his side like this was the place that he belonged.

Biggles hoped whoever was at the door wasn’t going to keep him too long. Pressing a tender kiss to Algy’s temple, he slipped from the bed and, robed and wearing slippers, opened the door. “Good Morning” he attempted, hoping that he didn’t look as frustrated as he felt.  
“Good morning Sir” the apparition fluted, “I brung you these” a fearsome garden of flowers was thrust up the steps towards him, “as thanks, like.” The apparition – now the flowers weren’t taking up most of the space around it, Biggles could see it was a female of the serving classes – dropped a curtsy. “Ah.” He murmured, wrapping his small hands around them, not entirely sure what he was supposed to say to having what appeared to be half of Kew garden in his arms, “Thank you very much.” His confusion appeared to be evident because she continued to speak, in a particularly high-pitched tremulous voice. “On behalf of the mistress, Sir. She’s ever so grateful to ye. You were ever so brave if you’ll excuse me for saying, Sir, and the mistress is ever so lucky that you were there, on account of the bus.” Another curtsy and Biggles wondered rather wildly if he had stepped back in time. “Always happy to help” he attempted, through an incipient headache brought on by the stench of lilies. The girl nearly melted away at this; she seemed to regard Biggles as some sort of demi-god, even if he was clad in his night attire. “Begging yer pardon, Sir, but the mistress was wondering if you’d be available for lunch today.”  
“Oh. Well…”  
“As a show of thanks, Sir.”  
Biggles, silently swearing that he’d never come to the country again, unless it was very far away from anyone but Algy, decided he couldn’t easily escape this duty. “We shall be delighted.”  
If the original intent hadn’t been for Algy to turn up, the maid didn’t appear to know about that. “Thank you ever so, Sir. Mistress’ll send a car for you both.” With yet another bob, she finally departed, and Biggles shut and locked the door behind her, giving the profusion of flowers – some of which were already dropping pollen on his dressing gown – a vile look. Going into the kitchen he put the kettle on and arranged a few of the brighter flowers in a small glass that he found, in lieu of a vase. There was only one, large, vase, and luckily it took most of the flowers, so Biggles put them in there, doing his best not to disarrange them any further. They certainly looked very impressive, he thought, placing them on the table in their sitting room. Brightened the place up. They just had uncomfortable undertones of female dependence.

“What’s this?” Algy asked, rubbing his eyes and sitting up as Biggles came in. “You’re getting romantic in your old age!”  
Biggles settled the tray over Algy’s knees and, still in his robe but without the slippers, settled back into bed, “I wish that was the case. Didn’t you hear the door go?” Algy, pouring the tea, shook his head. “Well it did” Biggles commented, “and jolly rum it was, too. Sounds like Miss Braythwayt is a dozen kinds of grateful and has decided to throw some sort of fete of thankfulness in our honour.”  
“In your honour old boy” Algy chuckled, “I have nothing to do with it!”  
“Well, you’re coming to lunch with me anyway.” Biggles returned, accepting his tea with a quick kiss of thanks, “I didn’t think I could keep you away from your favourite French chef.”  
Algy grinned, returning the kiss and settling in to sip his own tea, “you thought right. So what happened, Miss Braythwayt turned up with a bouquet and a lunch invitation?” The idea seemed to amuse him, “and you answered the door looking like you’d just got out of bed and probably gave the girl all sorts of inappropriate ideas to take away with her.”  
“I did not!” Biggles spluttered, “and it wasn’t her, anyway, it was the maid. A teeny-tiny woman who was nearly the same size as the bunch of flowers.”  
Algy regarded the half dozen flowers on their tray and then looked at Biggles. “She must have been about the same size as Tom Thumb” he commented drily.  
“The full bouquet, as you call it, is downstairs cluttering up the table. I’ve seen smaller ornamental bushes.” At Algy’s guffaw, Biggles attempted to describe what the bouquet looked like, but it was hard to concentrate all the time with Algy there beside him, and he slowly lost interest in anything but enjoying the restful feeling he got when they were together like this.

“What time is Mrs Axelby coming around today?” Algy asked lazily, sometime later. “Because we can’t be like this when she turns up.”  
“Why not?” Biggles asked teasingly, not particularly inclined to think about their housekeeper just at that moment. “She’ll be here sooner than she said” Algy continued, gently disentangling himself, “because she’ll want to talk over the incident with us before she goes around to spread the news.” Biggles, who privately thought Algy was talking through his hat – another occasion where he revealed he was perfectly capable of being wrong – rolled up onto one elbow. “She’s a sensible woman. She’ll want to get through her day the same way she always does, like a professional.”  
“Part of that professionalism is the peddling of information. She’ll be here first. Be a good fellow and let me up. You know we can’t stay here all morning, more’s the pity.” With a little more cajoling, Algy got himself out of bed and ready for the day, resplendent in the sort of brown tweed suit that made Biggles particularly happy to see him, and would no doubt meet with the approval of all, even that sartorial classicist Jeeves.  It was lucky he did so, because Mrs Axelby arrived while Biggles was still dressing.

This seemed to suit Mrs Axelby just fine, because she chattered gaily away whilst Algy ate his breakfast and read the paper. Having told him exactly what had happened, and how he and Biggles must have felt, the bustling woman then went on to say exactly how Miss Braythwayt must be faring. She gave Biggles a very speculative glance when he came down (Jeeves was certainly going to approve of Biggles’ outfits. Biggles always wore just the right thing, perhaps because he wasn’t the most demonstrative of men and it’s hard to look improperly dressed in dark clothes), and upon him standing near the flowers, gave him several more. It was obvious to Mrs Axelby, she announced to Algy when they were alone together again (Biggles having announced tersely that he was going to stretch his legs before lunch, and maybe find a nicer hat), that there’d be some news in that corner before the day was out. “I’m not sure” Algy tried, but she would not be moved.

***

What with one thing and another, it was a rather dishevelled Bertram that hove-to at the relations’ country seat the next morning. It was also rather late in the morning. Luckily, Jeeves had apparently been looking out for the y. master, for he rallied around like a good ‘un, plopping the master into a much needed bath on the one hand, whilst with the other offering that restorative which does so much for a fellow in his hour of need. “Jeeves” I said, with a fondness which no amount of post-binge scruffiness around the edges could erase, “you stand alone. This is the sort of thing that makes a man miss you.” Jeeves was being cautious today because the other room which adjoined the bathroom was now being prepared for a new occupant, who would arrive later in the week. Thus my paragon, ever aware of our surroundings, merely nodded and said he was glad to hear it, Sir, but he said it with the sort of tone which suggested that there was plenty more caring where that came from and it couldn’t start too soon for him.

“What’s on the cards for today?” I asked, once the eyeballs had settled in their sockets and my rubber duck was floating happily ‘midst the suds. “Mrs Travers has arranged for Major Bigglesworth and Mr Lacey to attend luncheon, Sir” Jeeves intoned, “as a mark of thanks for Major Bigglesworth’s actions yesterday afternoon.”  
“Pulling old Daphne out from under the bus, you mean?”  
“Indeed Sir. Mrs Travers seems to have thought it a very tidy bit of work, if you’ll pardon the expression Sir.” I prodded my duckie around the bath thoughtfully.  
“I’ve no doubt she does, Jeeves. What with the banner headlines all through the metrop., the tidy gathering together of sundry males and females, and the supposed proximity, if proximity is the word I want, of this Wooster to an unsuspecting female, Aunt Dahlia probably feels fairly comfortably on the velvet, so to speak.”  
“Indubitably Sir.” Jeeves knelt and gently washed my back, an office which he does sometimes when we are away as a sort of proxy for something rather more spiffing. I let him know the touch was more than welcome.

“I say, Reg” I said, _sotto voce_ , once we were in the relative safety of my room and the door was locked between us and the world, “I went out last night and you’ll never guess who I met.”  
“Who was that?” Jeeves enquired, not so much helping self into the togs as running his hands over my shoulders.  
“Bertie Lissie. You remember Bertie Lissie? Tallish, has a sort of attempt at a fungus upon the upper lip.” At Jeeves’ pained look I relented, “wears a monocle. Was mistaken for me.”  
“I’m well aware of whom you refer” he informed me, helping me dress, “Lord Lissie is a gentleman of some renown although his antics have become less notable following the unfortunate loss of his partner.”  
“Tom. Yes, he told me about him last night.”  
“Mr Harrison was a very suitable gentleman” Jeeves remarked, turning me gently so he could tie my tie whilst standing behind me, something that was rather more fruity than his professional wheeze of achieving the perfect double Windsor whilst standing at arm’s length and in front of one. I smiled at him in the mirror, “That’s what Bertie seemed to think. We had a good old chat, turned into a bit of a night out.” At his lip twitching, I felt compelled to add, “Don’t look like that old thing. Just, the flat was awfully lonely without you and sometimes a fellow doesn’t feel like dodging bread rolls just to enjoy his dinner. Not that the Drones isn’t a fantastic club when a chap is feeling like some light hearted entertainment.”  
“You misunderstand me. I was more concerned for your safety” I was turned again and this time wrapped in a warm embrace, as Jeeves whispered, “I’m always concerned for your safety.”  
I nuzzled into him in rather the manner of an approving cat upon being offered a pat, and did bally well everything but purr. “I was careful” I promised, “I even made sure Lissie and his new pal were safely ensconced in a niche before I ankled off for the night.”  
“That was very perceptive of you” Jeeves approved, and I felt my heart leap at the idea that Jeeves approved of me. Some things one never quite gets used to, don’t you know.  
“Thank you” I murmured, reluctantly breaking away as the dinner gong sounded, “you know, it’s the rummiest thing” I continued, slipping into the jacket and unlocking the door, “but it was almost as though Lissie didn’t know about the other two.”  
“A not uncommon state of affairs in gentlemen undertaking such activities, Sir” Jeeves remarked, opening the door and escorting me towards the lunch pail, “perhaps that is something that could be discussed later” he added, as we reached the dining room and I entered with the ravenous hordes. There was no chance for further conversation as Jeeves returned to his place serving and I was firmly ensconced in my chair and regaled with the story of The Rescue on all sides. Poor old Bigglesworth was obviously not best pleased about being made the centre of attention like this and I couldn’t say I blamed the fellow. Rather rich, what?

 

***

“Oh Major Bigglesworth!” Daphne had lisped, as Biggles and Algy stepped from the car, “I’m so glad to see you” she giggled a little and then looked a touch ashamed of herself.  
“It’s a pleasure to see you” Biggles intoned, taking her hand politely and releasing it to allow Algy to do the same. “Good to see you looking so well” Algy agreed, handing off his hat and gloves thankfully. Biggles, who had returned from his walk that morning with a serviceable though not particularly impressive looking hat, did the same. “Oh but I’m so _lucky_ ” Daphne gushed, attaching herself to Biggles like a particularly needy limpet, “really I can’t thank you enough, Major.” She batted her lashes at him and then added, “It is true, isn’t it? The people who look after us and make us happy really do help with making our little gardens bloom. I simply can’t tell you how grateful I am.” Biggles, caught between disbelief and terror, schooled his face and led her through to the room they’d taken their pre-dinner drinks in. “You must sit down” he tried, detaching her carefully, remembering a phrase he’d heard used by other men in this sort of predicament, “it’s not good for you to get excited.”

She seemed to accept that and he hastily walked over to pour two drinks, giving Algy a foul look. Algy winked, cheerfully sitting with his own drink and pulling out his cigarette case. “Speaking of gardens blooming, those flowers are wonderful” he offered, crossing his knees and smiling at Daphne.  
“I’m _so_ glad you like them” Daphne fluttered, taking the drink Biggles gave her with a meaningful smile as though perhaps he mightn’t want to drink quite so much in the future. “I didn’t see them myself but I know that the gardens here are wonderful. Major Bigglesworth and I had such a nice chat about flowers when you were here before, didn’t we, Major?”  
Biggles nodded, hastily sipping his drink, and wondering when the lunch bell would ring or Mrs Travers would come in.  
“The garden couldn’t help it. You know what they say” Daphne continued, barely touching her drink, and in her part hoping that Mrs Travers _wouldn’t_ come in, “even in the desert the land rejoices and blooms and all the little flowers will be so abundant. So of course you have the most lovely flowers here right now.”  
“They are very lovely” Biggles assured her, hearing the gong with some relief, and throwing down the rest of his drink. Algy, who had learnt the same habit in the same mess, followed suit and was thus just in time to save his drink from the strong arm of Honoria Glossop, who charged in to see if they’d arrived and if he’d take her in to lunch. This left Biggles to guide Daphne in, a task he accomplished capably but with no apparent satisfaction.

“So glad you could make it” Mrs Travers assured them, as they more or less found their places without trouble, “especially now Daphne is up and about.” Daphne tried to look even more delicate and Algy wondered with some disgust why everyone thought a male wanted his mate to be a sort of shrinking flower incapable of looking after herself.

***

Well it was clear to the meanest intelligence – mine, in other words – that Daphne had her heart set on Biggles, and would be heartbroken when the fellow left, as of course he was going to do. I rather hoped I could leave at the same time so I didn’t end up with arms full of heartbroken female. Such f.s are always awkward to contain and tend to like getting engaged. “How’s the _Boudoir_ going, Aunt of my bosom?” I enquired, hoping to shift the conversation from Bigglesworth’s efforts in the Samson line (he of the hair, don’t you know. Strong chappy.)  
“Going strong, young Wooster!” Aunt Dahlia trilled, “Thanks to Major Bigglesworth!” She added, beaming upon him like a favoured dish waiting to be served up to her. “We had a special edition run off yesterday evening and it’s selling like hotcakes. I think next edition will have lots of advice from dear Daphne here, and everyone will think it delightful. Of course we do have another Daphne in our line up too, Daphne Delores Moorehead that is…” she was off, talking nineteen to the dozen, and leaving the rest of us to enjoy the ambrosial delights of Anatole’s finest efforts in relative peace. Whilst Aunt Dahlia was pouring forth words like a particularly gregarious publican, Daphne and Honoria were obliged to sit still and eat like good little girls, so us chaps could get outside the toothsome spread without expending much effort on conversational minefields.

Of course, it couldn’t last. “When are you going to leave, Mr Lacey?” Honoria asked, as if she didn’t have plans for employing him until he managed to escape, “have you decided?”  
“Well” Algy murmured, glancing over at Bigglesworth, “I’m feeling much better you know. We were thinking we might leave tomorrow. There’s things waiting for us back at the office so we don’t want to stay away too long.” As if to stop himself from talking he put some more food into the old maw, with a sort of distracted air about him. I could well imagine what he was feeling. When a chap loves another chap, be that love ever so strong and established, it puts rather a strain on things seeing him chased by someone else, even if that someone e. is a female. It was a strain that Jeeves and I were somewhat familiar with, thanks to the actions of a variety of beazels who seemed entranced with the frame or brain of Bertram Wooster. I held back a shudder with difficulty.

“So soon?” Daphne asked, sounding like a little lost lamb and looking up at Bigglesworth with eyes as wide and deep as clear pools.  
“Yes” he said, obviously feeling the direct approach was the best. I wished I thought he was right. There’s a wheeze of Jeeves, one he sometimes mentions when I suggest that perhaps the certain look in a woman’s eye is faded. “Perhaps Sir” he’ll say, fixing me with a look, “she is only nursing her wrath to keep it warm” and I have to admit that so far, he hasn’t been wrong.

“But, Major Bigglesworth, I was hoping to feature an interview with you in the next copy of _Milady’s Boudoir_ ” Aunt Dahlia boomed, “you must stay for that.”  
Bigglesworth finished another mouthful in a measured sort of way and inclined his head. I wondered if perhaps his spine had melted but it appeared he was just being polite because he fixed Aunt Dahlia with a firm look and informed her he’d be happy to meet her reporter at a place in London that suited them. I goggled. I was amazed! Nobody had ever, to my knowledge, calmly suggested that Aunt Dahlia arrange things to suit them rather than her.  
Aunt Dahlia goggled too. She looked rather like the cat that was sure it had got the cream, only to find it dashed away from her lips at the last moment. Pipped, in other words. I glanced at Algy and had to look away, for fear he might make me laugh.

“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement” Aunt Dahlia said in the end, after a dashed uncomfortable few moments where Bigglesworth and the Aunt eyed each other like two tigers fighting over a morsel of flesh.  
“Indeed Mrs Travers” Bigglesworth agreed.

“I was hoping we could get in a ride before you left” Honoria said into the silence, looking at Algy and Bigglesworth, “it’s not right for hunting but a nice ride out to the woods and a hack back would have been very pleasant.”  
“I’m afraid we won’t have time” Bigglesworth announced, as Jeeves placed my dessert in front of me. Algy nodded along, accepting his own plate with a murmur of thanks and a glance up at the chap serving him, “Unfortunately we didn’t bring any riding kit, either” he explained breezily.  
“Well, when we get up a hunt, you’ll be sure to come, won’t you?” Honoria pressed. Algy agreed, looking rather enthusiastic. I really had to sit down and have it out with him one day – how did he manage to spend so much time _a deux_ with Honoria and not end up engaged?

The only person who hadn’t been pacified, therefore, was Daphne, who looked fit to weep buckets right there into her _tarte tatin_. In a fit of humanity, Aunt Dahlia seemed to notice. “Perhaps you’d like to go and rest your head, dear” She suggested to Daphne, “you really were very naughty to come down to lunch.” The girl looked helplessly around her, and then seemed to agree that it was the best option. “Yes Mrs Travers” she sort of sighed, “how wise you are.” She added with a gust that seemed to come from some deep well of disappointment. “I’ll just got and take a headache tablet. Maybe I’ll be well enough for coffee.”  
“Well, don’t strain yourself” Aunt Dahlia replied, and I was surprised at how nice she was being. Perhaps there was some tender hearted woman hidden in underneath the hunting queen.

“Poor Daphne” Honoria murmured, tucking into her own dessert like the staunch trooper she was, “she feels things most awfully you know.” The conversation moved on to other things, and I suspected I wasn’t the only one who felt that it was a good thing it did.

 

 

“Jeeves” I said, as we were retiring to the sitting room for coffee, “do you think that Daphne’s alright to be up and about?”  
Jeeves coughed like a sheep on a distant hillside and regarded me for a moment, “perhaps Miss Braythwayt is not as physically rattled as you suppose, Sir. The poet Keats likens such cases of thwarted love to a dove, in such a way, Sir. ‘I had a dove, and the sweet dove died/ and I have thought it died of grieving; O what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied/ with a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving: Sweet little red feet! Why would you die?’ Sir.”  
“That’s all very well and good, Jeeves” I said, “and I’m sorry for the poet Keats’ dove and all that, but it doesn’t really explain what’s got Daphne looking sicker than a sick dog.”  
“Pardon me, Sir, however the poet Keats was not writing directly about a physical dove, Sir. It was more in the way of being a metaphor. You see, the poet Keats…”  
“Jeeves?”  
“Yes Sir?”  
“Save the poet Keats.”  
“Yes Sir”  
“He does not appear to be germane to the situation.”  
“No Sir”  
“Expunge the poet Keats from your mind.”  
“I have already done so, Sir.”  
“Excellent. Now, in plain language, tell me what you think the poet Kea- dash it! What you think is making Daphne look like a cow that’s just been told nobody is interested in drinking milk anymore.”

  
He told me. I goggled. I’d known that Daphne was rather a drip of the first water and that she was apt to get excited about anybody she spent too much time with, but the idea that she had been planning where she and Bigglesworth were going to live and who her bridesmaids were going to be was a bit rich. “One can’t just go marrying the first chap to pull you out from a bus, Jeeves”  
“No Sir”  
“I mean to say, it shows the proper spirit and all, Jeeves, but is it a safe thing to look for in a husband? How often is one going to wind up in front of busses in the course of married life? Is it not possible that the man will end up rescuing sundry women from busses and thus leave himself wide open to interest from other parties? Is this something the little woman wants to worry about each day? No! I say no, it is not! What rot women think.”  
“I could not say Sir” Said Jeeves with a rummy look in his eye.  
“What do you mean you could not say Sir? It’s a perfectly reasonable…oh hullo Daphne.” I concluded, rather weakly. She had appeared from some nook and cranny and apparently felt up to joining us for coffee. I rather hoped she hadn’t been there long. “Been there long?” I enquired.  
“I have just arrived” she said stuffily, in the manner of someone who has been there some small amount of time but doesn’t want a lot of bother made about it.  
“Good oh!” I trilled, “Let’s mangle the coffee pot then, eh?” I guided her into the room and plopped her down next to Honoria. When I returned with her cup she had placed herself next to Bigglesworth, and was busy telling him all about the books she had been reading. That seemed a safe enough topic of conversation and I left them to it.

***

“Do you read poetry, Major?” Daphne had asked, as she re-affixed herself to Biggles. He had to admire her tenacity, even as he wished she’d take a hint as easily as Mrs Travers had. Mrs Travers had departed for her study immediately following lunch, apparently to put in place the process which one went through to organise an interview with someone. “Not really” Biggles replied, lying through his teeth. Algy gave him an approving look. “All a bit beyond me I’m afraid.” He refused to meet Algy’s gaze, afraid his friend would give him away with a laugh.  
“I’ve been reading the most wonderful book and I know you won’t find it too beyond you really.” She trilled, “It’s called ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’, and it’s by the cleverest woman. She really seems to _understand_ the lot of the Lady.”  
Biggles wondered wildly if upsetting his coffee would be acceptable, as a means to the ends of them escaping. “I’ll look it up when I get back to town tomorrow.” He said instead, hoping to leave it there. “There’s several bookshops around that will have it I’m sure. What else do you like reading?” He continued, trying to distract her from the dangers of reciting poetry in mixed company. In this he was ultimately unsuccessful, and Daphne leant forward and started reciting to him with the sort of determined look that made him quiver in his boots and want to reach out for Algy to rescue him.

She had just got to describing herself as ‘fain to drink’ when Mrs Travers came in and boomed out, “How about Friday for an interview? Oh I am sorry Daphne.” She looked a little embarrassed but Biggles, seizing his chance, leapt up and came across, making some small fuss and thus entering into conversation with her instead.

As soon as he had finished, Algy stood. “We really must get going.” He said apologetically, “thank you for a lovely lunch” he added, shaking Mrs Travers hand, “let us know when the hunt’s on” he added to Honoria, shaking her hand heartily, “and it’s so good to see you aren’t too knocked around from yesterday.” He added, kissing Daphne’s limp paw.  
“I’ll see you out” Bertie exclaimed, leaping up, “Jeeves, the car!”  
“The car is already outside Sir” Jeeves replied, moving in so smoothly neither Algy nor Biggles really saw him arrive. Gratefully, the two aviators allowed themselves to be led away. Daphne reclined on the sofa apparently inconsolable, her imagined life of happiness in complete – rather than only half – tatters following such rough treatment from Biggles and Bertie. Mrs Travers and Honoria stayed with her for some time before Mrs Travers dispatched her to her room under the care of her maid.

***

“That was great timing, Jeeves!” I congratulated him as he hoofed it with the other two towards the door, “how did you know the car would be ready right then?”  
“I merely suspected, Sir. Your hats, gentlemen, and your gloves” Jeeves offered the accoutrements to any well-dressed man’s wardrobe with a slight bow. “If I may, Sir, there is a very well appointed milliners in Burlington Arcade…”  
Biggles smiled thinly, “I’m sure any milliners is considered well-appointed compared to the one I bought this one at. The old hat went the way of all flesh yesterday afternoon when it met with a ‘bus.”  
“Don’t worry Jeeves” Algy chimed in, “Biggles doesn’t go around improperly dressed usually.” He grinned and I saw a tiny flicker of amused on the Jeevesian dial. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be at home with him, in our little love nest. Maybe I’d even let him explain the doves to me. Sometimes, when he reads poetry, he picks out the most wonderful little things and the way he reads them turns the tum into something warm and sticky. Like sitting in a warm bath sipping something sweet and warming.  

“I am pleased to hear it, Sir” Jeeves replied, opening the door and stepping outside. “I wish you a speedy recovery. Some say that sea air is very good for the throat.” He added, giving Algy a subtle look. “Although if you will forgive me Sir, _not_ Brighton this time of year. The weather is not that clement there.” The two of them gave Jeeves a considering glance and then Biggles nodded briskly and shook his hand, “thank you, Jeeves.”  
“Yes, thank you Jeeves” Algy echoed, and Jeeves bowed at both of them as though I wasn’t there.  
“And thank you, Bertie” Algy added, shaking my hand and slapping my shoulder in a matey fashion, “I hope you don’t have to stay here too much longer” he added with a wink and I laughed.  
“We’ll be off soon after you I think! Don’t want to get caught up in Daphne’s dove wheeze.”  
“Doves?” Algy queried, looking as though I’d sprouted feathers myself.  
“The poet Keats, so Jeeves informs me. Something about tying them up and watching them die.”  
“Ah” the poor fellow didn’t look much the wiser but I wasn’t either so I didn’t feel too sorry for him.

There was further mutual hand shaking and thankyous all around and then they were born off towards the cottage.

“Jeeves” I said, “I rather fancy a smoke in the garden. Would you care to join me?”  
“I would, Sir” he said, and off we went. I was right; after explaining the poet Keats to me he recited the most wonderful little number about wild nights leading to wilder times, and by the time he’d finished I was jolly glad we were well out of sight of the house.

***

Biggles and Algy, taking Jeeves’ advice, retired to a small cottage near the sea and not too near anybody else. They had a woman come in every other day and put about that Algy was rather sicker than he was, which prevented any further visitors. They had nearly two weeks there and returned hale and hearty. The only side effects of their little adventure, were that Algy greatly encouraged Biggles in his previously only passing interest in poetry (the way he said things like “leave a kiss but in the cup/ and I’ll not ask for wine” was rather intoxicating of itself), and a standing invitation to join Honoria at a hunt near the start of the season.

Bertie, who was sometimes very blind, still wasn’t aware that Ginger was in the minority in their little flat, but had developed a habit of ducking out to ‘dinner at the club’ on a Thursday night. He always returned at some stage – although sometimes Biggles didn’t see him before leaving for work – and seemed much more relaxed and content.


End file.
